by Nia Farrell
“Dear God, yes. Yes. Oh, God.”
Daniel gave Edward what he wanted—what he needed—tonight, as never before. That’s how I knew that Edward was worried, though he would never show it. Never admit it. And that only increased my concern. I awoke in the middle of the night with my stomach in revolt. Clenching my teeth, I pressed both hands to my abdomen in a futile attempt to ease the pain. Yielding to the greater wisdom, I shook Daniel awake and asked him to fetch the green glass bottle that I kept by the sink in my water closet.
Of course, Edward awakened. Attuned to my need, he placed his large hand over mine and pressed on my stomach until Daniel returned with my gypsy medicine and a glass of water. “There’s not much left,” he noted. “I’ll see if Lucy can get her men to fetch some more. I’ll send some coin for their grandmother’s trouble.”
“Thank you.” I downed a swig of medicine and chased it with water. “It will start to ease in a few minutes.”
Daniel set the medicine and glass by the bed, then climbed back in, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair while I lay in Edward’s arms and waited for the medicine to work. I’d never imagined a relationship with more than two people. Well, except for those of the Mormon persuasion, but I suspected that having two wives was somewhat different than belonging to two men. For one thing, paternity would never be in question. Nor would legitimacy. Not that the men weren’t careful, but if we kept going at it the way that we did now, it was very likely that, some day, I would face both of those issues.
The aftertaste of the stomach elixir lingered in my mouth, despite the water I’d drunk, and I wondered if Tamás and Tobar’s grandmother might also know something to prevent conception. I resolved to ask Lucy to send a message for me.
Feeling more in control of my fate, I drifted into an uneasy sleep and awoke with a neck ache from grinding my teeth during the night. It wasn’t the first time, nor, I suspected, would it be the last. The angst of an artist was reason enough. Add the unknown threat of Rutherford Thomas Paine, and I’d be fortunate if I did not wear my molars down to stubs.
A few minutes of massage from Edward helped. By the end of breakfast, the tension had eased considerably. Edward was already gone when Young Frank brought up a basket with the lunches that his mother had prepared, and the three of us set out for the half mile walk to work.
That night, I told Edward that I would be wearing male attire to sculpt. I described my near-fall that afternoon, when my skirt caught on the frame of the scaffolding that Daniel and I had put up with Young Frank’s help. He had become a regular fixture at the studio, so much so that Edward had increased his wages to compensate for the extra work he was doing.
“My question is, would you prefer that I change into work clothes at the studio rather than wear them there and back? It makes no difference to me, but it may to the neighbors.”
Word had filtered out concerning my service in the war. If I’d been deemed a curiosity before, an artist in their midst, now I was doubly so.
“They have enough to talk about, I think,” Edward said. “The separation of work and home seems wise. I think it best if you change there, please. You have space in your wardrobe, but I would suggest hauling down your trunk. It has a lock, and you lack a safe. It would serve as secure space when the need arises. First and foremost, money from sales. I shall see about getting you a small safe. I am having a larger one delivered here.”
This was news.
“The plates,” he explained, answering my unspoken questions. “The photographs. Personal documents that I wish to protect from fire as well as from theft. Your concern about Paine made me aware of our vulnerability, should a break-in ever occur. Acquiring a safe seems the best recourse.”
“Yes, it does,” I said, wondering just how large his beast of a safe must be, to hold the stacks of glass negatives and the prints that Sydney had made for us. “Do you think there might be room for my sketchbooks as well?”
“Possibly. I hadn’t given them thought. Perhaps a larger safe for your studio, then. One with room enough for the pads that you need secured or wish to protect, as well as deposits waiting to be taken to the bank.”
We’d gone to his institution of choice, after Daniel’s arrival and the purchase of the abbey, and set up personal accounts for each of us and one for the studio.
“You’re optimistic.”
“Hopefully prophetic as well. Let me know how large that the interior needs to be. Make a stack and measure it. No doubt you will add to it. We should get one with space enough to accommodate.”
“Thank you,” I said, mentally pinching myself when I considered all that he’d done, and continued to do, for me and for Daniel. “When Lucy’s twins bring my medicine, we could speak to them about moving the trunk. It’s very heavy.” Most of my sketchpads were in it, and Edward had hauled enough books to know what paper weighed. No, my trunk was far too much for Daniel and Young Frank to carry down. “They’ll need a cart, at the very least, or a wagon.”
Edward nodded. “I will let Lucy know to have them see you, either here or at the studio. If they are amenable, find out when they can work you into their schedule. The sooner, the better, even if it needs to be of an evening.”
“Yes. Well. Mine are free, save for tomorrow.” Our appointment with his jeweler was at eight, a night-dark carriage ride that I was not looking forward to, on the return trip, anyway. “I’m concerned about how sore I’ll be at first, if I’ll be able to sculpt, or if I will be limited to sketching.”
“Plan on sketching,” Edward said, “even if you feel up to more. Give yourself the chance to heal and avoid the complications that might otherwise arise. Daniel, I trust you to see to it.”
I opened my mouth but one arched brow from Edward quelled my protest. “We know you, my dear,” he rumbled. “You will likely work your fingers bloody tomorrow, get everything done that you can, in case you cannot work on it after you are pierced. You may balk at repeating the process, but you will do it anyway because you lost a bet and you are a woman of honor. But most of all, you—and Daniel—will do it for me.”
Because it’s what Edward wants. It’s what will please him.
True, giving pleasure could be its own reward, but to earn his highest praise and have him show his appreciation, well….
Just the thought sent gooseflesh cascading up my arms.
Edward’s lips curved, forming a smile full of innuendo. His heated gaze drifted downward, settling on my breasts. “Tonight, after Daniel’s massage, I have plans for you…and some rope. Daniel may watch, if he chooses.”
Of course, Paddy did.
Edward knotted an elaborate harness around my chest that framed my breasts, with nipples jutted out, begging for attention. Denying me anything more than a teasing pinch, he trussed my legs, lashing ankle to thigh before spreading my knees and opening me for his possession.
I was bound, helpless, before him. That he was still dressed made it all the more erotic. He was in control. He could do whatever he wished to me. I moaned, burning with need.
“What’s your word, pet? If we need to stop, what do you say?”
“Delphi.”
Edward hummed his pleasure. “Very good. And Daniel, your word, please.”
That had Daniel reaching for his fly. “Posy.”
“Excellent.”
Edward ran two fingers down, one on either side of my seam, expertly judging my swollen flesh. Parting my folds, he thrust a finger into me and curled it, finding my sweet spot with practiced ease and bringing me to the point of orgasm with only a few strokes of his hand.
“No,” he said. “You must not. Not yet. Not until you have my permission.” And yet he kept stroking me, keeping me on an edge that was quickly eroding beneath me.
“Please,” I begged him. “I need to come. It’s too much. It feels too good.”
He pulled out his hand. I wanted to weep for its loss, until he dipped his head and I felt his tongue, touching me, tasting me, lapping a
t my juices, then delving deep inside. In. Out. In. Out. Each stiff stroke was followed by a curving pull that threatened to drive me mad, bound as I was. It was torturous, holding back, keeping my orgasm simmering, threatening to boil over at any moment.
He tongued my clitoris, teasing it while he pushed two fingers inside my vagina. I was already sopping wet. When he starting pumping his hand, I could hold back no longer and came with a shuddering cry.
My juices ran like cider from a press. Edward lapped them up while Daniel watched, longing on his face and his cock out, stroking himself.
“You came, pet,” Edward growled and bit my breast.
I moaned from the pleasure-pain he was inflicting, marking the side that was getting pierced tomorrow. “I’m sorry, Sir. I held back as long as I could.”
“Such a naughty puss. Daniel, you are going to fuck her but she is not allowed to come. If you sense that she is close, back down until she is under control again. I expect you to last until you are given permission to finish. You can do that for me, can’t you, my boy?”
“Aye,” was my Irishman’s throaty answer. He crossed the floor to the bed, leaned against the corner post, and slowly, deliberately pulled off his boots, keeping his heated gaze locked on mine as he stripped. Naked, he studied Edward’s knotwork, admiration shining in his emerald eyes for how I was presented, like a sacrifice, bound for his pleasure.
Daniel crawled between my thighs, catching my feet and planting them on his chest as he leaned over me. Taking himself in hand, he slickened his tip on my juices, parted my folds, and pushed his girth inside me, stretching me, barely giving my body time to adjust to his possession. He forced his way in, until I could take no more. I took short, sharp breaths, willing myself to relax, but this was so new, being bound for him. In my dreams, I’d always seen him bound for Edward.
A particularly deep thrust commanded my attention. Daniel crooked a grin and nodded. “That’s better, darlin’ girl. Ye need to stay here and feel me. Feel this. Ye’re so tight, we barely fit, but ye just get wetter and wetter.”
I could feel the juices being wrung from me, running down my ass and soaking the sheet beneath me.
He rolled his hips, grinding the muscle above his cock against my pearl. I clenched my teeth and fought back the urge to climax, curling my toes into the muscled pad of his chest as if clinging to him could keep it at bay. He did that himself, the tease, holding back, changing pace, shifting angles, pushing me to the brink, then pulling back. Push. Pull. Again and again.
His skin glistened with sweat that beaded his forehead and dripped off his chin. His arms trembled from the strain of holding his weight off me, yet he continued to thrust into me, like a well-oiled machine. “Jaysus,” he grated. “Fuck. Ye’re tight. So damn tight. Still. Holy Mother of God. Edward?”
“Come.” Edward ordered, and we obeyed. Daniel pulled out, shoved three meaty inches into my ass, and finished there, spurting hot milky streams into my dark passage while both of us were gripped by my orgasm. I came long and hard, walls rippling, juices bursting, toes curling into his chest. If my hands weren’t tied, I’d have dug my claws in, too.
When he’d emptied himself, Daniel shuddered like a great beast, kissed my feet, and left me. I was still half-afloat in bliss when Edward began untying my knots.
He checked my limbs, had me move everything, wriggling fingers and wiggling toes. I was a bit stiff from being tied up but that was it, save for the marks on my skin where the rope had been, branding me with Edward’s transient art. He admired it greatly, and found the beauty of it so inspiring that he stroked himself to a climax, emptying himself onto me, streams of white pooling in the twisted rows that banded my flesh.
Having achieved his own release, Edward heaved himself over and rolled to lie beside me. “Good girl,” he hummed. “And you, my boy. So beautiful together. Both of you, so perfect. Just perfect. Watching that arse of yours…it was all I could do to not join you. Another time, hmm?”
Daniel shivered.
Whether it was from trepidation or anticipation, I could not say.
Chapter Fifty-Three
As Edward predicted, I worked like a mad-woman the next day, anticipating the worst in the aftermath of my piercing. It turned out to hurt far less than I feared, thanks to the jeweler who facilitated the procedure. He was experienced, thorough in his explanations of what to expect, and presented his wife as a shining example of his work. She took the baby from her breast and slipped in a small golden hoop, explaining that some women simply left their jewelry in when feeding their young but she took hers out, rather than worry about it working loose and choking her child.
I went first, determined to set an example for Daniel, who had agreed to an earring yet remained harried by doubt and fear, germ theorist that he was. Learning that Edward’s jeweler was of the same persuasion helped, as did my stoic demeanor as my breast was bathed, the guide was clamped on my nipple, and the needle run through, followed by the golden hoop that Edward had chosen for me. There was only a drop or two of blood, wiped away by styptic wool. The jeweler recommended padding be worn for six weeks to prevent irritation, and to soak my breast in camphorated water if inflammation did occur.
Edward kissed my forehead and took one last admiring look before I put my clothes back on. By the time I buttoned my blouse and slipped on my gloves, Daniel was done and wore an attractive gold hoop in his right ear, since most nights, he slept on his left side, facing me.
“You’ll have to think about a beard,” I told him. “Well trimmed. Nothing too wild or wooly. It would be a good look for you, I think.”
Not shaving appealed to him. Having a beard in winter, more so. The next morning, he exercised with Edward, breakfasted with me, and left the house without putting a razor to his face.
Neither of us had slept well, and tenderness made us move slower, with more deliberation. I gladly followed Edward’s prescription and worked on sketches after discussing my ideas with Daniel on what to do first. I had a number of images flitting before my mind’s eye of The Fighting 69th, most of them focused on camp life. Some were of the action we’d seen, and on the aftermath—the wounded, the weary, the carnage of war. Gaunt faces with haunted eyes. Mouths biting on leather, jaws clenched against pain. Nurses close to collapsing, their skirt hems soaked with blood.
Perhaps because it was the Christmas season, but I decided to focus on the spiritual aspects of the war. I thought of Daniel clutching my St. Michael’s medal as he lay, waiting his turn for surgery, and Father Corby blessing the troops before battle. The Sisters who served as nurses in the wards. The little Bibles bulging in pockets or wrapped in kerchiefs and tucked in haversacks.
After deciding to start with Midnight Mass in winter camp, I gathered what I would need and took it to the loft, where I could sketch at my table. We’d left Young Frank at home (Lucy had said that his mother needed him), but with the door bell to alert us to visitors, Daniel stayed close by, waxing eloquent about our shared experience, telling stories but through his eyes, which had seen different things than mine. At this early stage, I was able to incorporate some of them into my initial sketch, to be fleshed out as the work progressed.
Sometime after lunch, the door bell jingled. Daniel peered over the railing and saw that Tamás and Tobar had come with my trunk. Both men were strong enough to make carrying it seem effortless.
“It goes up here,” I called to them. “I’ll pay extra if you bring it the rest of the way.” Without Young Frank, it seemed the most viable option.
“Aye,” they chimed, and hauled it up the stairs.
I had them set it by the bed.
“Thank you,” I said, pressing a coin into each of their palms. “For everything. And thank your grandmother for the medicine. I still hope to meet her, when time allows, if she is amenable to it.”
Toby, the more genial twin, smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the statue. Lucy kept me too busy Saturday night to get a good look at it.”
“Of course.” I pointed toward the north transept. “Be my guest. Take your time.” I was not about to deny him. I’d used his face, after all.
“I will. Thank ye, Miss Davenport. Mr. O’Flaherty, if ye’d be so kind, perhaps ye’d come with me and repeat what ye were telling the guests about the war? I heard bits and pieces, here and there, enough to want to hear the rest.”
I nodded my consent, and Daniel smiled. “Foin then,” he beamed, and had Tobar follow him downstairs.
“Thank you again,” I said, turning back to Tamás. “I—” The words died in my throat, along with my heart when I saw the pistol that he had leveled at my chest.
“Give them a minute,” he said. “Then ye’re going to have an attack of that stomach and ask O’Flaherty to go home and fetch your medicine. I know it’s a green bottle kept by the sink in your water closet, so don’t go trying to tell him otherwise. If he stays here, we’ll have to hurt him, and you don’t want that.”
Tamás spoke as calmly as if he was adding to the green grocer’s list, his expression devoid of warmth, his concern centered on self, to spare them the injuries that Daniel would surely inflict, fighter that he was. No wonder I’d painted him as Heathcliff.
“Why?” I whispered.
His lips thinned in a parody of a smile. “I told you that I knew people,” he reminded me. “And for those who do, there are those who pay to have it done. Someone wants you, and he’s offered a tidy bit of change to whoever brings you in. Figured it might as well be us, Christmas season and all that. Can always use the extra coin.”
Rutherford. It had to be Rutherford. Just the thought of him made me ill, and I placed a hand over the very real pinch in my stomach. “Whatever he’s paying, Edward will double.”
Tamás shook his head. “He can’t pay everyone,” he murmured. “It’s best this way. Now, call O’Flaherty.”
“Daniel!” I called over the railing, my voice ringing in the rafters. My Irishman hurried into view. “I’m so sorry. My stomach. It’s started up and my medicine’s at home. I don’t think I can make it, for both of us to lock up and leave. Will your leg let you run and get it? I hate to ask but….”
